Mute
by Lucyinthesky1996
Summary: "Someone once asked me what my worst fear was. Most seven year olds worst fears are clowns or spiders or thunderstorms. My fear was a little bit different. My biggest fear was talking"


Someone once asked me what my worst fear was. Most seven year olds worst fears are clowns or spiders or thunderstorms. My fear was a little bit different. My biggest fear was talking.

I've always been afraid to talk. Maybe because I'm scared I'll say the wrong thing. Maybe because I feel socially awkward. Maybe because I simply _can't _talk.

I've always been _quiet_; Mycroft says when I was a baby I rarely cried and by the time I was eleven months old I still hadn't said my first word, which caused my parents some concern. They'd sent me to all kinds of doctors and psychiatrists, wondering if I was deaf or had some kind of autism. All results came back negative. It seemed I just didn't like talking.

It wasn't as if I didn't _want_ to talk; I literally couldn't. It got worse as I got older and started going to school or going out to dinner with my parents. Whenever teacher asked me a question or we were in a restaurant ordering, the sides of my mouth would twitch but no words would come out. My tongue would curl up to the back of my mouth behind my teeth, refusing to make a sound. I'd just sit there, wishing the floor would swallow me up. Mycroft said I looked like a scared rabbit. It used to annoy my teacher. It annoyed my father too. All the more reason for me to keep quiet.

Mother never got annoyed, she just worried about me. She even worried about me when she became sick. HIV I think it was, I'm not sure. But I still remember listening to the conversations she had with father about me as she lay in her sickbed.

"He's not well, I know it. They've missed something."

Father would always deny anything was wrong with me.

"I'm sure he's just going through a faze. He's shy. He'll grow out of it."

"No, it must be something. Social anxiety disorder, Aspergus, _something._"

Part of me wished something _was_ wrong with me. That I was slightly Autistic or had a vocal condition which prevented me from speaking. At least that would give me an explanation for why I couldn't talk properly. School was the most difficult part; as you guessed I had few friends due to the fact I couldn't speak to them properly. I would spend most of my playground days experimenting. I'd steal items like sulphuric acid and calcium carbonate from the science labs and spend my lunchtimes mixing them together and pouring them down anthills. Not that much fun, but better than playing hopscotch with Sally Donovan.

But mother was getting worse. Father called me and Mycroft downstairs one evening and sat us down on the sofa. It didn't take a genius to deduct what he was going to say.

"It's your mother, boys…" his voice trailed off and he looked up to the light, "…she's very unwell. She might not be around for long…"

Mycroft burst into tears almost immediately. I didn't cry. To be honest, I didn't know _how_ to. It was as if all the emotion had been sucked out of me. I couldn't say a word.

This even made Mycroft angry.

"For goodness sake, you could have _said _something!" he shouted at me that night, as we were getting ready for bed, "Did you _see_ father? He was in bits! And you sat there and didn't say anything!"

_I __**couldn't**__ say anything_, my mind screamed, _it wasn't __**my**__ fault. Why do you have to __**bully**__ me all the time?_

He seized me by the shoulders and started shaking me, like father did when he scolded us, "Mother is _dying _Sherlock, and you have nothing to say? What's the _matter _with you? Why do you always have to be such a _freak_ all the time?"

That word - '_freak_' - made a ghost of a touch spread down my spine, and I shivered. Mycroft released me, covering his mouth as if hoping the words would go back in. But it was too late to take it back. He had left a scar and it would never leave.

My mind started screaming again; _I__** hate**__ you Mycroft! I hate you, hate you, __**hate**__ you!_

After mother died, I vowed never to speak at all; I wasn't even going to try. Not for Mycroft, not for anybody.

The title 'freak' seems to have chased me all my life. It's a lot harsher than my old nickname, the one I had back when I was seven. 'Mute' they used to call me. Mute as in someone who can't talk. Even the teacher's called me a mute. After a while, they stopped asking questions and simply assumed I was too unintelligent to speak. I went with it of course, because I couldn't say anything to convince them otherwise. I just continued living in my own silent world, whilst the other children danced around me, laughing and playing their cruel little games. I didn't have time for games. I already knew what I wanted.

I was going to be a consulting detective.

Even if it meant being the only one in the world.

* * *

><p>In order to be a good consulting detective, you need to experiment. I'd grown bored of destroying ant hills so I tried searching for something new to experiment on. I'd always wanted to know how long it would take for a caterpillar to chew through a trainer shoelace (don't ask me why, I was very ambitious back then). There were plenty of caterpillars in the trees in our school so finding one wasn't difficult. It was a big one too, so it would make the experiment all the more interesting. I didn't wear trainers so I had to steal one from the school changing rooms. The other boys were out playing football so they wouldn't notice me.<p>

When I was sure I was in an isolated spot, I placed the caterpillar near the shoelace and watched as it began chewing through it. It ate in short bites; it was obviously a thick shoelace because it took about half a minute for it to swallow one mouthful. I lay on my stomach, chin rested on my hands and my feet in the air – a position I always used for concentrating back then. Nowadays, I much prefer to lie on my back, hands together with a few nicotine patches stuck to my wrist.

I lay there for about an hour, examining the trainer as the caterpillar delighted itself in conceiving its leathery meal. It was fascinating – to _me_ anyway – how the owner of the trainers managed to keep them in such pristine condition. The soles were a little specked with dirt from the football field but otherwise fine, there were no holes and they weren't worn out. They were still pure white, though they were obviously years old. This child was organised.

"You've got my trainer."

I looked up, quickly putting the caterpillar in my pocket and became sensible to the boy in front of me, about two or three meters away. I recognised him from class, the one who sat next to Molly Hooper. He was small, definitely shorter than me, hair a messy brown, his eyes large and playful like a puppy. He was standing at an odd angle, his left foot lower than his right as he was missing a trainer, his white sock slightly specked with stains from the wet grass.

"You've got my trainer," he said again

_Brilliant deduction (!)_, I wanted to say, but I didn't.

"Can I have it back please?"

I gave him a blank look, a look I normally gave to people when I wanted them to go away. I wasn't in the mood to be snapped at; after all it wasn't like I'd be able to say anything in my defence. I expected him to get annoyed at me or simply sigh and retrieve his shoe himself. But he didn't. Instead, he folded his arms and put his legs apart, giving him the appearance of a miniature solider standing at ease. He didn't look annoyed or upset. He looked unusually patient. His eyebrows rose.

"I'll take that as a no then."

I blinked at him, trying to cover up my surprise. He walked over and sat on the right side of me, letting his gym bag slip from his shoulder.

"Guess I'm going to have to stay here until you change your mind."

_Why bother? You'll only get bored_, my tongue ached to say.

He unzipped the bag and pulled out what I thought at first was a big ball of black yarn. Then I noticed it had two ears and a face. A black sheep?

"This is my favourite toy," he said, more to himself than me, "Do _you_ have any toys?"

_Do I look like the kind of boy who has time to sit around playing with toys? Besides, playing with toys is for immature children_, is what I would have said if I could. Instead, I just shrugged.

"I called it Billy because I thought it was a boy but it turned out it was actually a girl. So I have to spell it B-I-L-L-I-E. Well, that's what the label said anyway. I take her everywhere with me. She's my lucky mascot. And listen, when you squeeze her tummy, she bleats," he gave her a squeeze and truth be told, a tiny bleating noise came out. I smiled a little, though it was difficult because my mouth disagreed with me. Yes, I even found smiling difficult back then.

"You can touch her if you like."

I blinked again and then gently stroked the tip of the sheep's ear with my finger. It was soft, a bit like touching a ball of fluff. I wouldn't have minded one of them myself. I didn't have many toys; mainly because I experimented on all of them so my teddy bear had been decapitated and my transformer had been melted from the neck down. Mycroft had warned me on several occasions that with the way I was going, I would commit genocide of the toy world.

_Where did you get her?_ I wanted to say but the words couldn't reach my mouth.

"My dad gave her to me when he went away to Ireland," he said, as if he could read my mind, "I don't get to see my dad much anymore because he's got this girlfriend."

I was suddenly intrigued

"Him and Mum split up a long time ago but his girlfriend lives in Ireland so he went there to be with her."

_You know, it's very naïve to talk about your personal life with a stranger_, I would have said.

"When I asked him why he was leaving he said it's because he loves his new girlfriend. But mum says it's just an infat…infatu…"

_Infatuation? _I longed to say.

"Basically, she says it's a five minute wonder and he'll eventually come back to us. I think. My mum has to work overtime now to pay the bills. What does _your_ mum do?"

I bent my head a little.

_She's dead_, my mind suddenly screamed. But I didn't dare say it. I wouldn't have been able to anyway.

"Sometimes I miss having my dad around," he went on, "My little sister Harry – short for Harriet – doesn't really remember him properly so I have to remind her who he is when he comes to visit. Do you have a little sister?"

_I had a brother…_the words echoed inside my brain, _…but not anymore_

"Not really the talking type, are you?" he cocked his head at me and smiled.

I tensed, waiting for him to start teasing. I tried to focus my attention on the trainer but all of a sudden I'd forgotten how to deduct. All I saw before my eyes were a flurry of question marks. I felt my cheeks going red.

"Don't be embarrassed," he said almost kindly, "I used to be shy as well."

_I am __**not**__ shy_, I thought furiously.

"Hey…" he peered at me, his eyes narrowing a little, "…aren't you Mute? The boy in my class? I thought I recognised you!"

I bent my head further, my cheeks blazing fire. I nodded.

"Oh, sorry…" he said, and he sounded like he really meant it, "…I didn't mean to-"

I shook my head again, not really in the mood for patronizing sympathy. I could feel something building up inside me and suddenly my eyes were moist.

"Are you crying? I'm sorry if I upset you, I thought you just didn't like talking. I didn't know that you couldn't…"

I was so confused I could barely hear him. I'd never cried before, not properly anyway. I knew what crying was; I'd seen plenty of people do it on television and in school but the sudden drops of water falling down my cheeks got my heart pumping. I tried to wipe them away but they kept coming, as if they would never stop. Something suddenly escaped my lips, a small pathetic sound I'd only ever heard from Mycroft. A sob.

And then I felt an arm wrapping itself around my shoulder.

"I really am sorry. I won't ever call you Mute again, I promise," he said softly, "I'm John, do you want to be my friend?"

I stared at him through my sore eyes. This sudden act of kindness baffled me and all I could do was nod.

"Good. So now that we're friends, please can I have my trainer back?"

I nodded and pushed it back over to him. He frowned a little at the half chewed lace but just shrugged and put it on his foot.

"I need a new pair anyway. Hey, stop crying now. Boys aren't supposed to cry." He put Billie back in his gym bag and slung it back on his shoulder, "Do you want me to walk you home?"

I glanced up at the sky. It was already beginning to darken slightly and father didn't like me being out on my own at night. I didn't live far from school.

I nodded, because I couldn't say yes.

* * *

><p>"By the way," John said the next day in the playground as we played noughts and crosses on the steps, "I never caught your name. What is it?"<p>

I stopped scratching out my noughts and crosses and chewed my lip. I couldn't stand my name back then; I found it stupid and complex. Why my mother decided to call me that, I will never know.

_Sherlock, my name's Sherlock_, the poor soul within me cried out. But I knew John couldn't hear him.

Instead I took a small pebble from the ground and started scratching my name onto the playground step.

**S-H-E-R-L-O-C-K**

"Sherlock…?" his eyes widened a little, "…that's a _brilliant_ name."

_Not as nice as John_, my mind said a little sadly.

"It's much better than _my_ name; I'm just plain old John. Hey, maybe we should swap sometime," he laughed.

The sides of my mouth twitched a little, but again a smile wouldn't come out. John noticed.

"Ah, find it hard to smile as well? You're like my aunt. She can't talk nor smile. She can't even walk. She's like Stephen Hawkings; she has to sit in a wheelchair all day. She has this special speaking machine too, but it makes her sound like a robot. Mum says they think she's got Motor…motor…"

_Motor neuron disease? _I wanted to say

"Motor something. It basically means she may never be able to walk or talk properly. She made me this you know," he tugged at his jumper that was decorated with little kittens, "She used to make a lot of jumpers. But then something happened to her hands and they don't work properly no more. She doesn't make jumpers now," his face suddenly fell.

I wanted to say, _that's awful, I'm sorry_, but I couldn't so I just patted his hand instead.

"Its okay," he smiled at me thought it looked strained, "I guess these things can't be helped. Anyway, you're lucky you still have your legs. My aunt says hers were stolen from her."

I frowned slightly.

"She says they were stolen from her when she was born," John explained, "Funny, I didn't think it was possible to steal someone's legs."

John's innocence nearly made me cry again.

"What do _you_ think of grown ups Sherlock?"

I paused and then scratched a sad face onto the step. John laughed.

"Yeah, I feel like that all the time. But I don't understand grown ups sometimes. My mum says we need grown ups in order to survive. Because they sit down and have tea and talk about things like grown ups do. But then you hear about grown ups who do bad things. A grown up did a bad thing to my friend once."

_What did he do?_ I asked with my eyes, seeing as my mouth refused to co-operate

"He used to hit him. Not like a smack, like a proper punch. He would come into school with bruises and I would kiss them for him so they didn't hurt as much. You might know him…Peter Anderson?"

I blushed. Peter Anderson was the one who first started calling me Mute. I could have forgiven him for it though; he wasn't the brightest thing and I don't think he was really aware of how much it bothered me, otherwise me may have stopped. He wasn't like Sally Donovan; he didn't intend to be cruel. But all the same, I made sure I steered clear away from him whenever our paths crossed. I'd never noticed any form of injury on him though.

"I thought grown ups only punched grown ups. I didn't know they punched children too."

_Not all grown ups do that John. Only the bad ones_.

I sighed, wishing the words would leave my mouth.

"Still, his dad's in jail now so he's alright. I feel sorry for him though. Dads are supposed to take care of you. And mums. Does your mum take care of you?"

I took the pebble again and started scratching onto the playground step.

**D-E-A-D**

It took a while for John to absorb this message.

"Sorry," he said, looking horrified, "I didn't think…mums aren't supposed to die when you're young."

_No one's supposed to die John, we just do. It's a natural form of life._

"Do you miss her sometimes?"

I nodded, wanting the subject to change.

"I can't imagine my mum not being there. I can imagine _dad _not being there, he's barely there anyway. He sometimes sends me postcards from Ireland but he doesn't even do that much now. Sometimes I really miss him but…sometimes I don't."

_I know how you feel…_

"Sometimes I blame him for leaving. Even though he wasn't really leaving me and Harry, he was just leaving mum. But sometimes I feel like…I don't know…I feel like he doesn't really care."

_He does care John. He loves you. He just feels bad for leaving you and he's worried you'll reject him._

"I wish I knew what you were thinking," he looked at me fondly, "You always have that look on your face, as if you're thinking of something. I wish I was as smart as you are. Most people think that people who can't speak are dumb. But you're not dumb."

I took the pebble again, and started scratching into the playground step.

**I-LIKE-YOU**

* * *

><p>"Try it again, slowly this time.<em> C-o-u-r-a-g-e<em>. Courage."

My lip trembled. I looked at the list of spellings and tried to open my mouth. I tried to force my tongue to work. But no sound came out. I shook my head miserably. At this point, John and I had been friends for about three months and he had invited me over to his house so we could learn our spellings together. We were going to have a spelling test the next day and John had insisted on being my speech therapist in order to get me ready. As you can tell, I was a nervous wreck.

"Don't worry," John patted my shoulder, "It'll come to you."

I tried again. _Courage_. One small, measly word that I had to say aloud to my class. I opened my mouth, trying to get my tongue to move in the right place. It curled backwards, cowering away, too afraid to make any sound. John waited patiently as I attempted to speak, my lip quivering but still I couldn't make a noise. I was still there an hour later, sat in the middle of John's bed, staring at the spiralling letters. In the end, John sighed and let himself fall backwards so his head rested on his pillow.

"I give up," he mumbled, "It's no use."

_I'm so sorry John._

I watched him nervously, hoping he would see the apology in my eyes. He noticed and smiled to reassure me.

"Don't feel bad Sherlock; it's not your fault. I'm just a terrible speech therapist," he sighed and flopped back again.

I hated the way John blamed himself. He was so modest, it was unbearable. Here he was, giving up his spare time to teach me how to speak when he could be playing football or something else more exciting just to teach me how to say one word. He truly was a friend.

_You deserve better than me John._

I looked at the spellings again. _Courage_. Such a _small_ word. But it would mean something big, if only I could only get my tongue to work with me. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth. My tongue tried to steer away again, curling up to the back of my throat again. But my mind told it straight.

_You're listening to __**me**__ now_

It uncurled, touching the tips of my front teeth, wetting my lips.

That small person in my head was screaming, _Don't do it!_

I ignored him._ I_ was in control, not him.

The sides of my mouth twitched uneasily, but managed to spread upwards as I took a deep breath.

"C…"

John looked up, his eyes wide and curious. The sudden sound from my lips shocked me, but I didn't give in. I couldn't. I had started, and I needed to finish.

"C…"

"Come on Sherl," John sat up and looked into my eyes, "Keep going, you can do it. C…"

"C…o…"

He shuffled up next to me and started rubbing my back, small circles which seemed to boost the small dose of confidence inside me.

"C…o…u…r..."

"You can do it Sherlock..." he said the same comforting words over and over again, "…you can do it."

I bit down on my tongue, to prevent it from doing its usual curling trick. My forehead suddenly felt damp. My cheeks felt hotter than usual. I calmed myself and carried on, my mouth suddenly bone dry.

"C…o...u…r...a…g...e…"

John reacted like an infant on Christmas Day.

"Sherlock! You did it! Say it again!"

"C…courage."

John squealed and threw his arms around my neck so the both of us fell over, off of the bed and onto the floor; I was dazed by the sudden contact with the bedroom rug but surprisingly it didn't hurt. Something warm pressed against the side of my face and realised John had planted a kiss on my cheek. I blinked in surprise, a sudden burst of happiness erupting inside of me. The sides of my mouth curled upwards and I suddenly smiled without difficulty.

"Oh Sherl…" John breathed, and I could see his eyes had glassed over, "You smiled…you…"

I wiped the upcoming tear from his eye, my smile still there.

"Than…" I tried to get the words out of my mouth but it suddenly became difficult again, "…thank…"

John silenced me by putting a finger on my lips.

"Don't say anything. You don't need to," he put another kiss on my cheek, "I'm so proud of you Sherl."

He stuck out his little finger and linked it with mine.

"Best friends?"

I squeezed it, though inside there were still a thousand things I wanted to say.

* * *

><p>The day of the spelling test felt like judgement day. It shouldn't have. All we had to do was stand up, spell our word and sit back down again. But it was nerve-wracking all the same.<p>

John had traded places with Sebastian Wilkes who normally sat next to me. John sat next to Molly Hooper on the other side of the classroom but after bribing Sebastian with a packet of liquorice, he eventually traded places. I was grateful for his company. I was going to need support after all.

I sat there, crossing and uncrossing my legs as teacher worked his way down the row of desks. John stood up and said his loudly and clearly, not stuttering or making any mistakes. My stomach twisted, making me feel sick.

"Sherlock Holmes?"

I could hear every breath in the room hitch slightly. I never answered questions in class. I never said _anything_ in class. They thought it was pointless letting me take part in the spelling test, seeing as I was the class mute. I stood, trembling a little. My teacher looked at me with stone eyes.

"Spell 'courage'."

I could feel my tongue curling to the back of my mouth again and my forehead started sweating. I had already lost my classmate's attention; they had gone back to their own little worlds, flicking rubber bands and drawing on their desks. I wanted to sit down and fold my arms stubbornly like I usually did when teacher dared ask me questions. I would have done too.

I studied all the faces; Molly Hooper with her large dark eyes, Sebastian who was grinding the liquorice between his teeth, Sally Donovan who was drumming her nails impatiently against her desk, wanting me to get on with it. Peter Anderson, who turned and watched me curiously and for the first time I noticed the faint bruising on his face which had escaped my eye before.

But then I glanced downwards and saw John, sitting up straight, eyes focused on me, giving me his full attention.

No one else was in the room. Only John and I.

_My John. _

His hand moved and he gave me a small thumbs up. My tongue uncurled almost immediately and I wet my lips, repeating the method I had used before.

"C-courage…" I said quietly, "…_c-o-u-r-a-g-e_."

I sat back down immediately, suddenly feeling cold. Everyone was staring at me, their eyes wide and confused as if I had chucked a bucket of water over them.

"I didn't know Sherlock could talk!" Molly Hooper said a little too loudly.

I could still feel their eyes fall upon me like an ocean but I ignored them. It felt like the tightest belt had been unbuckled in my gut and I could breathe again.

I could feel John's hand move underneath the desk and he linked his little finger around mine.

* * *

><p>Speaking is still an issue for me. Shortly before I turned thirty I was diagnosed with Selective Mutism, the answer to my childhood fear of speech. It was a relief to say the least; obviously I wasn't<em> happy<em> with the diagnosis but it proved that I wasn't a freak. I just couldn't help it. It had taken almost twenty years, but finally it felt like a weight off my shoulders, an answer I deserved.

Nowadays I rarely speak in full sentences and only really converse with people I am close to and trust. I can occasionally talk without stuttering, unless I feel cautious or nervous, and as for smiling…well all I need is John for that.

I don't know if my life would be the same if I hadn't grown up with John. I feel that if I hadn't I would still be Mute, the one who never speaks. Now I'm just Sherlock. _Normal _Sherlock. Even though I'm not really normal, not in any shape or form, but more human than I used to be.

I took John's advice and got myself a proper speech therapist. I suppose it helped in some ways to get me where I am now. But I know that I owe it all to John. Of all the speech therapists in the world, he defies them all.

* * *

><p>There are times when we go out walking together, to the spot where our school used to be. It was knocked down a while ago and is now a public park. There's a bench there, marking the spot where John and I first met. We sit on that bench and we talk, though John does most of the talking. He always has.<p>

"By the way Sherl," he says, one lazy Sunday afternoon when we're sitting on that same bench again, "You never did tell me what you were doing with my trainer."

I give him a knowing smile.

"You and your experiments," he shakes his head fondly, "Things never change."

I wet my lips, "John?"

"Yeah?"

"Would you…" I trail off, trying to find the words, "…have still been my friend? If I could talk properly?"

This is probably the longest sentence I've ever said without pausing in between. Even John looks surprised. But he answers my question.

"Probably not," he laughs at the look on my face, "I'm joking Sherlock, of course I would. But it wouldn't have been the same."

"What do you…?"

"I mean…you wouldn't have been _you_. The whole reason I liked you was because you weren't like everyone else. Anyone can _talk_, Sherlock. But you're capable of so much more."

"John…am I a freak?"

"Of course you're not. You never were."

"But…what if I could speak normally?"

"Then you'd be boring."

I feel another smile coming and I take a long breath of summer air.

Someone once asked me what my worst fear was. Most seven year old's worst fears are clowns or spiders or thunderstorms. My fear was a little bit different. My biggest fear was talking.

But then I let someone into my silent world. And they showed me that fear is only what you make of it.

John shuffles closer to me, so we're almost touching.

And he links his little finger with mine; an action he knows speaks louder than words.


End file.
